Mountains and Valleys

"I have descended from a planet called grief," says the Count of Monte Cristo, explaining the source of his almost superhuman wisdom. "He who has felt the deepest grief is best able to experience supreme happiness. We must have felt what it is to die. . . that we may appreciate the enjoyment of living."

While some view the count as almost godlike, this man who dares to manipulate fate falls into the oh so human error of prescribing his own medicine to others. The grief that Edmond Dantes suffered for 14 years in prison, the grief that took away everything dear to him and brought him to the point of suicide, finally ennobled him until he emerged as the supernally wise and unfathomably wealthy Count of Monte Cristo. He plays God--or perhaps the antithesis thereof--arranging the lives of those he hates and those he loves so that they, too, can experience the destructive or ennobling power of grief.

While I cannot bring myself to complete agreement with the count's philosophy and the liberties he takes in applying it in the lives of others, I do recognize the power of pain in my own life. Just as I relish the energizing feeling of completing a taxing workout, I love the empowerment of having passed through adversity. When I finish a good run, the blood pumps through my veins. My skin tingles, I breathe more deeply, and even my mind feels cleansed and sharpened. Similarly, looking back on a time of trial I sense a new strength, unforeseen insights, more faith in the possibilities of the future. I feel alive.

In college, after a year of grappling with the frustrating fallout of silly teenage highs and lows, I decided to teach myself to shut off those annoying emotional reactions. Who really needs to ache over boys, anyway? I succeeded frighteningly well, and for a few months I enjoyed a respite from tears and heart hiccups. After a time, however, I began to miss the chance to cry my soul clean. I needed a searing ache to wipe away the sludge of leftover worries and nagging doubts. In locking tight the fear and the sorrow, I had also stifled the belly laughs and the astonishing awe of simple bliss. I craved the heights and depths and longed to explore my own boundaries again.

Over time, life reminded me how to double over in pain and gasp in delight. At first I borrowed from the experiences of others: imagining the depths of a mother's sorrow in losing her son to cancer or marveling at a friend's willingness to give herself over to the joyful awkwardness of falling in love. I even determined, with some reluctance, that God gave women hormones for the very purpose of regularly reminding us how to feel.

I love the ability to abandon myself to laughter or tears, knowing from experience that I will eventually regain even ground. I love the cleansing and strengthening power that comes from enduring the depths and pushing the heavy weight. I cherish the gift of empathy that comes only with experience. I cannot say that I crave pain or ask for trials, but I fear them a little less now than I used to. In the words of our dear Count of Monte Cristo, "All human wisdom is summed up in these two words, 'Wait and hope.'"

The Most Beautiful Woman in the World

Years ago I heard someone say that at some point in her life, every woman is the most beautiful woman in the world. I think of that quote periodically as I gaze on humanity around me, and occasionally I have the wonderful opportunity to glimpse some of those "most beautiful woman in the world" moments.

Just last week, for instance, I sat chatting comfortably with a friend in her living room. As usually happens, our conversation meandered from God to pets to our own insecurities and on to those people who have influenced our life in significant ways. My friend does not consider herself beautiful. In fact, she isolates herself somewhat with the worry that her physical struggles will make others uncomfortable. Yet as she spoke of her mother, of their closeness and of the legacy of faith her mother left behind, tears wet her cheeks and a singular beauty stole over her countenance. I wish she could have seen herself at that moment.

Back in Vermont, I served in a presidency with my friend Jen, a woman who prefers to stride through life with her tough side turned out. I used to love watching the transformation she periodically exhibited (quite against her will, I think) in our meetings. With Jen, one can read the mood of the day by her clothing. Black does not signal joviality. On one particular day, I walked into the room to find my friend dressed in black, dark eye shadow to match the decided frown on her lips, arms folded and a personal bubble the size of Texas radiating out from her glare. We began the meeting with our usual prayer and proceeded to discuss the needs of the women under our care. I stole a glance at Jen now and then. Soon, she began to melt. The face relaxed, the bubble began to recede just a smidge, the arms dropped, and she leaned forward almost imperceptibly. Cursed with a high sense of duty and a heart far too big for her own comfort, Jen cannot long resist a peaceful spirit. The melting ice revealed a beautiful woman.

My friend Trisha also suffers the curse of a high sense of duty. With a large family and stewardship over hundreds of women, she gracefully carries the weight of responsibility, yet feels the stress of gifting out her time and energy in pieces to the hefty demands of each day. The other day, however, I noticed something different about her. She seemed lighter, at peace, more whole. A weekend with the girls, away from all the "shoulds" of her daily life, had generated a spa effect. Always lovely, just then she was the most beautiful woman in the world.

I think of other beautiful woman moments I have witnessed. My mother laughs freely with her granddaughter, their bond unmistakable. My young voice student finishes her first recital, the thrill of the moment in decided contrast to her original terror at the thought of performing in public. Filled with inspiration, Jennie teaches a Sunday lesson to the young women she has served with love, her whole countenance shining with her conviction of their potential.

Gabriela Mistral, the Chilean poet, said once, "Love beauty; it is the shadow of God on the universe." I find the search for those shadows infuses my life with divine moments.

Of Knights in Shining Armor and Such

My husband and I have an anniversary tomorrow, our 17th. I have been thinking lately about those things that have kept me happily married over the years. All too often, I take my husband for granted. And then sometimes a chance conversation with a friend reminds me how unusually blessed I am in this stubborn New Englander that I married.

17 years ago, Brad was a 21-year old sometime college student, living at home and working nightshift at IBM. I was older, a widow, a single mom, and a professional. Logic would never envision us together, but then, logic hardly has a corner on wonderful, does it? We went target shooting on our first date, paused to watch the sunset over Lake Champlain, then struggled to find a late-night dinner that would fit into my vegetarian lifestyle. I never intended to date him again, but I had not taken into account the Wallace charm. From guns to reggae to Hill Cumorah to Mozart, somehow I fell in love without intending to.

I celebrate my anniversary tomorrow because not only do I love my husband, but I rather like him, as well. After all these years, we still find ourselves talking for hours without struggling for words. I seek his advice, and often I even follow that advice.When laughter sends tears down my cheeks, or the sunrise dazzles the frost-covered trees along the road, I hurry to share the moment with Brad. Years ago, on vacation in Maine and sleeping peacefully, I felt a tap on my shoulder. The tide had come in, and Brad wanted to share it with me. We dangled our feet off the wall outside our hotel, listening to the waves. Those are moments to cherish, worth far more than Kay Jewelers will ever comprehend.

I celebrate another anniversary also precisely because of the painful times, those episodes that have periodically left us staring helplessly at a widening gulf between us. Years ago, in corporate life, I sat in a customer service seminar and learned an important truth. A company's most loyal customers are generally not those who have never had an issue with the product, but rather those who have experienced significant issues and the successful resolution of those issues. I can tell you without hesitation that the same truth applies to marriage. Late nights have found us immersed in deeply painful conversation, wounded by life or by each other, mists clouding the vision of eternity that should inspire us on. Sometimes we claw our way to the other side of the gulf, fingerhold by fingerhold. Sometimes we stumble on a miraculous bridge. But always, eventually, we find ourselves standing hand in hand on the far side of the impasse, a little bruised but stronger.

Brad forgives me. He inspires me, pushes me upward, expands my soul. He loves me at my most unlovable moments and believes I am beautiful. He honors me with honesty and gracefully accepts my honesty in return. He massages my feet even though he would rather not and stays up late at night so that I can wake up to a sparkling kitchen. He jumped into fatherhood without complaint, loving my son as his own. He is the champion of our children, even when they don't realize it, and my own safe haven when the storms swirl.

Simply put: I love my husband. Happy Anniversary!

Blatant Nostalgia Trip

I'm listening to Bonnie Raitt and lapsing into nostalgia this afternoon. I remember clearly the first time I heard one of her songs. It was early evening on August 12, 1992. Chris and I were driving up to Bear Lake for a raspberry milkshake, talking a little but mostly breathing and listening. I began to relax for the first time in weeks, maybe months. Still, I felt like an awkward teenager after a makeover, not sure quite what to make of the new self emerging, aware that others reacted differently to me now and unsure how to react to myself.

My parents and I argued on my return, Dad worrying about me joyriding with a married guy friend just hours after my husband's funeral. I don't imagine they realize, even now, how essential that evening was for me (and how innocent). Chris and I had always connected deeply and uniquely. I needed that instinctive connection just then--no explanations or discussion, just the permission to simply exist. I suppose I probably even needed the hint of rebellion and the release that came with the argument at home.

A few weeks later I packed my pickup truck and moved cross country to Vermont. As a parting gift, Sue gave me Bonnie's "Nick of Time" album for the drive. That album became a link to my past and the anthem of my rebirth. Even now, it transports me back to Saturday afternoons on Burlington's Church Street, my toddler son turning heads with his blond curls and hip sunglasses. Inspired by his delight, perhaps, I felt myself growing younger with the passing seasons. Months of caring for a terminally ill husband had aged me by decades.  Now I felt the years falling away. I explored my new territory, fascinated both with the charm of Vermont and with the adjustments in my emotional landscape.

I loved those early years in Vermont--the fog over Lake Champlain on my way to work, the silliness of somersaulting into snowdrifts, my son singing behind me on the bike, the thrill of falling in love quite unexpectedly. Bonnie Raitt and rich New England air worked their magic on me, healing and rejuvenating, filling me to the brim with life. Even now, listening and remembering, I breathe a little more deeply and feel new.

Enchanted Always

I have discovered a new hero in Lotty Wilkins, thanks to my book group and their decision to choose a cozy, feel good book for the dead of winter. Lotty blossoms on the pages of Elizabeth von Armin's The Enchanted April, the story of four women who share a small Italian castle for a month.

We stumble upon the nearly invisible Mrs. Wilkins in her club on a dreary afternoon, little suspecting how the wisteria and the Mediterranean sunshine will transform her, giving her substance and glow.

Just the hint of wisteria in a newspaper ad is enough to begin the metamorphosis, and our Mrs. Wilkins gathers an unlikely combination of roommates for her impulsive vacation: Mrs. Arbuthnot, the efficient and sad church lady with a penchant for classifying the poor; Mrs. Fisher, a woman of respectability, memories and her own importance; and Lady Caroline, the beautiful and rather selfish blue blood of the group. Ah, you see how easy it is to slide each woman quickly into her proper envelope!

Yet somehow Lotty fails to see the obvious envelopes, first because her sense of her own awkwardness blinds her and then because the flowers of San Salvatore impose their beauty on everything she sees. Lotty expects heaven and therefore finds her paradise in the gardens and people around her. Though she does not realize it, that, more than the sunshine and wisteria, makes up the infectious magic of San Salvatore.

I think perhaps Lotty's expectation of beauty and her willingness to allow those around her to transform against the odds are the qualities that have set me pondering this week. Whether it's Lotty's faith in individuals, the magic of San Salvatore, or simply a delicious and unexpected reality of life, the characters in the novel do melt and soften and blossom, bursting out of the cubbyholes fashioned for them by the reader and by the characters themselves.

I find the scent of lilies and roses wafting into my own wintry week, and I begin to wonder if the expectation of beauty can hold the same power outside of fiction, away from garden paths and the flowering Judas tree. One could rightly call Lotty naive and warn of the dangers of blindly expecting goodness, but sometimes I find that a little naivete and a spritz of danger enhance loveliness. More often than not, we find what we expect to find in life, in our spouses, in the day that waits just outside our bedroom door.

Looking ahead to the next few weeks of winter, I propose to jump straight into lilies and expectations of sunshine. Why not? April and San Salvatore have plenty of enchantment to share with a prairie winter and soul ready to be delighted.